


What Bond Did Without Moneypenny

by WhoNatural



Series: Alpha Magazine 'Verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst, Blogging, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Danny knows everything, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Nerdiness, Pining, Ugly Betty AU, derek is a sad panda, gratuitous superhero references, laura is fabulous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoNatural/pseuds/WhoNatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lost months in Not Like Bond & Moneypenny, in which Derek pines, Laura tries not to meddle, Stiles blogs, and everything works out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Bond Did Without Moneypenny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eeames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeames/gifts).



> I wrote this to celebrate reaching 500 followers on my [Teen Wolf blog](http://howlnatural.tumblr.com). *Throws confetti and cheers*
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and it was a great exercise in writing Derek's POV. Of course, I couldn't resist focusing on those piney months without Stiles, but it's not all doom and gloom, and does have a happy ending. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for following me!
> 
> Gifted to [eeames](http://eeames.tumblr.com/), who welcomed me into the fandom when it felt like everyone already knew everybody else, by fangirling with me and creating [amazing edits](http://eeames.tumblr.com/tagged/tw+ub+au) inspired by this story.
> 
> Also thanks to [that-sounds-like-a-porno-wade,](http://that-sounds-like-a-porno-wade.tumblr.com/) who helped come up with the url for Stiles' blog.

“Mr. Hale?”

His assistant - Jenny? Janie?...Joan? - is giving him a look like it’s maybe the third or fourth time she’s called his name, and he shakes his head.

“Sorry, what?

They’ve stopped outside the break room. The syrups are still stacked on top of the cappuccino machine, reverse alphabetical order.

Just like he left them.

Derek had poked his head in, that last week, to find out what all the commotion he heard upon passing was about. He’d found Stiles in there, all alone, having a conversation with the hazelnut bottle.

 _“I should really keep you away from Chocolate. Derek only wants Chocolate on his bad days. Y’know, hangovers, douchebag visitors, unreasonable deadlines...”_  He’d poked a finger at the bottle’s label. “ _You, my nutty friend, are Derek’s ‘cold morning’ flavour. I don’t want you getting infected with any of that negative ju-ju and harshing the mellow._ ’

He’d called Stiles name,  _just_  to see him leap about a foot in the air and spin around, face cracking in an attempt to give him the ‘Stilinski Glare.’ To Derek, it kind of looked like Stiles had just eaten a bad hot dog, but it seemed to make him feel better or something.

Janet(?) cuts into his reverie. “I’m sorry, sir, did you want a coffee? I can--”

“No, “ he snaps, picking up the pace again. The thought of anyone else serving him some awful butchering of a latte has his stomach twisting in knots. It’s only been three weeks.

 He’d gone back to that little coffee place around the corner; the one he knew Lydia and Danny liked to go to when they had a free afternoon. Where he’d seen Stiles and his friend cuddling up together.

He couldn’t remember if the coffee was good from there or not; most memories of that day consisted of pacing and swearing, wishing he wasn’t in fucking  _sweats_  like some slob and a taste of bile at the back of his throat because  _Stiles had a girlfriend_. He had a _girlfriend_  and Derek hadn’t even known how it would feel like a punch to the throat until it was grinning in his face, all blonde hair, lipstick and eyeliner, leaning into Stiles’ warmth and talking to him like an equal.

Like Derek wasn’t sure how.

That’s what it was all about. With the others - the ones he’d been with before, who’d started out in official positions, but all inevitably ended up in the same place - there hadn’t been any effort in the blurring of professional and personal lives. Derek had flirted. They’d  _always_ reacted.

It hadn’t been like that with Stiles, who kept it somewhere between professionalism and friendship; seeming to genuinely care, but there was almost a tutor - tutee dynamic between them, coupled with Derek being Stiles’ boss, so he  _had_  to be all accommodating and patient with him, and... and Derek didn’t know when he’d started  _wanting_. The worst part of spending that weekend wondering how to change things with Stiles, how he’d react if maybe Derek asked him to dinner or a movie or maybe just grabbed him by the strap of that damn messenger bag and  _leaned in..._  was reminding himself of how wrong it would be if he  _did_  do something. Stiles was happy with someone else - he’d just have to accept it and move on.

Well, that had been the plan, anyway. Distance. Nonchalance. Professionalism.

If there was a happy-dance in the privacy of his office - well, more  _single fist-pump_  than the kind of wiggle he’d seen  _some_  people do - once he’d been corrected on the girlfriend-and-sexuality front, then that is confidential information and he will deny it under oath.

It only took one trip back to the cafe, that first day without Stiles, the ache of his absence fresh and pulsing, to remember that the coffee was only mediocre. The place looked bigger when he wasn’t focused on that worn couch by the bean display, willing himself not to look but looking anyway - and seeing the very thing he'd wanted least in the world. It took barely two minutes for him, that second time, to feel like an idiot for lingering by the door, checking out the various faces inside. Twice.

_Who would come all the way from Brooklyn for coffee anyway?_

_‘Stiles might’,_  that little voice of betrayal said. ‘ _He loves coffee.’_

Derek couldn’t seem to move his feet, and the traitorous voice sounded so  _sure._

 _‘Yeah_ ,  _Stiles might come, and then you can figure out how much he hates you and you can try to tell him you’re sorry’._

Derek had finally turned in place and left.

_Why would he even want to listen?_

"I'm going for a cigarette," he tells Jackie(?), veering away from their trajectory before she has a chance to protest.

She always bombards him with a thousand questions at once. She's already fucked up his meeting schedule and thinks he hasn't noticed (Stiles had begun to auto-forward Derek's timetable to his inbox at the beginning of each week, since Derek was less likely to freak out over facing something out of his comfort zone if he knew it was coming) and it makes Derek's skin crawl, how her skirts keep getting tighter and she feels the need to invade his personal space to tell him anything. He needs a damn break.

"Well, alright, Sir, you have twenty minutes before Mr, um, Figstack-"

" _Finstock_ ," Derek interrupts irritably. Learning the names of department heads should be a pretty high priority, especially for an assistant.

_It had taken Stiles a day._

"Yes, of course," she flusters, clearing her throat. "Twenty minutes before he wants to see you about the reshuffle. Goldberg is sitting in."

Derek doesn't even bother correcting her again, instead rolling his eyes and making for the balcony.

He wonders if it's something akin to self-torture that he comes here in the moments when he  _really_  misses Stiles; stands in the spot where Derek had laid it all out and gone for broke and Stiles had  _kissed him back_ ; and smokes from the first pack of cigarettes he's owned since college. He doesn't even like the taste anymore.

He knows it’s stupid - he knew what a mistake he’d made the moment he saw Stiles walking out of the office with his paltry box of possessions (he had hidden around the corner, slumped behind some artful representation of a cactus and frozen like the  _coward_ he is), as those honeyed eyes glazed over and closed off, their owner looking like his world had come crashing down around his ears.

 _He’ll be fine. It’s just about the job. He was too smart to be your assistant anyway - you were holding him back from his potential,_ he'd told himself.

He knew, even then, that it was still wrong - he knew what needed to be done, how to make it right, but there was a force holding him back by a chokehold. Derek wasn’t ready for apologies - ready for the raw honesty he knew Stiles deserved if he explained himself. He wasn’t ready to see his family ripped apart even more either; but most of all he wasn’t ready to confront what the hell would happen if he believed Stiles - if he acknowledged that there was someone out there, looking out for him just  _because_.

How had that awkward, talks-like-he’s-running-out-of-air, dishevelled  _geek_  gotten under his skin?

Derek remembers that first day vividly - the hangover making him shaky and miserable, the irritation when he found out his assistant not only hadn’t shown up, but had been fired (he hadn’t been looking forward to seeing her anyway, since they’d spent the previous Friday night in a hotel room and he’d skipped out on the Saturday before breakfast). He’d barely acknowledged anything or anyone except for the burning need for caffeine in his system and that there was a stranger hovering by the door. It was only when his vision started to de-cloud that he’d taken the guy in; all foot-in-mouth and potential energy, hair mussed like he’d spent the night hunkered over an Xbox controller in the dark, and he felt the pang of familiarity.

He knew what Laura was trying to do, and if anything, curiosity alone made him take the bait.

Stiles was the first male assistant he’d ever had. ‘ _Stiles_ ’ didn’t even use his own first name, like he was protecting some secret alter-ego. Stiles was uncouth and sarcastic; he didn’t ramble as much as expected, not like on that first day - nerves, Derek later guessed - and he was actually there because of his career choice, rather than hoping to pick up some free clothes or meet a celebrity.

He jumped from one subject to another unless it was something that genuinely interested him. He didn’t flirt (Derek wasn’t sure Stiles would even know _how_ ) and he had an irresistible aura about him that drew anyone into his enthusiasm. Derek  _wanted_ to be drawn; he wanted to let Stiles whisk him along on each tangent, because nothing in this new environment even seemed to make sense until Stiles explained it to him. They spoke the same language, underneath it all.

Stiles was a  _nerd_ , and oh, how Derek had missed that.

He’d missed the days when he didn’t care about Body Mass Index or protein intake, when who cared about his ‘image’ consisted of the front row of bleachers at a home game and however many MySpace friends he had. Back before a model scout had approached him at a baseball game in sophomore year of high school and told him she could get him ‘out of daddy’s pocket’. Back when Derek had a comic book collection Stiles would probably have a small stroke over, had agonised over Bruce Wayne vs. Tony Stark with the other wealthy kids in the dining hall at lunch; when he’d proudly declared himself a Nintendo fanboy, before he’d swapped graphic novels for regular ones, and he never felt embarrassed over loving something unashamedly.

Laura used to call him her ‘geek baby brother’ to their friends. Only those who knew Derek that first year of high school appreciated that the nickname hadn’t started out as ironic.

Getting to know Stiles was like uncovering a part of himself he’d thought was long gone - overtaken by the fashionable elite and the need to make an impression. Derek learned young how to act in certain circles; that his face made up for a lot of social ineptitude so he could masquerade as brooding and aloof, and most of his former interests were considered ‘quaint’ and ‘fashionable’, depending on the month.

Jackson had teased and patronised, and it was nothing Derek wasn’t used to, because nobody wanted to hear him ramble on about the evolution of werewolves in visual media or dream-cast a Justice League movie. He just felt lucky that Jackson thought it was cute, rather than a turn-off (or so he said; there was a lot of time post break-up spent reconsidering  _a lot_  of things Jackson had said for truth). Derek knew to stick to the more encompassing subjects and remind himself that he was a grown-up, and nobody worth knowing over the age of twenty would want to listen to this crap.

But then there was Stiles.

When he came along, something in Derek snapped. He had  _so much_  he wanted to discuss with Stiles. He wanted to share opinions, pick his brain, draw hypothetical battles and spend the day with him in a couch-fort, marathoning movies and eating pizza.

He wanted to start a conversation that wasn’t about work or some stupid fashion thing neither of them really gave a crap about - but every time Stiles was in front of him, he regressed into a taciturn, sub-vocal statue who could only communicate via eyebrows and half-questions.

Stiles’ intelligence intimidated him, because Derek had spent so much of his life playing down his own.

Of course, because nothing in Derek's life could be simple, they were shoved together in close quarters all the time; so close that Derek could notice  _other_  things.

He could see that Stiles' eyes were kind of beautiful, framed by long lashes and always alight with curiosity or mischief. His lips were constantly chewed and bitten - pink and swollen somewhat to distraction - either from the permanent fixture of steaming coffee hovering by his mouth, or an oral fixation that bordered on  _adorable_  some days and  _obscene_  on others.

Derek had never in his wildest dreams thought he would find himself jealous of a pen, a straw, a fingertip. Stiles and Cupcakes could probably have their own pay-per-view show.

Derek would subscribe.

That's even without the over-worn t-shirts, loose around the clavicle and the slope of throat; the Adam's apple constantly working beneath a jaw that barely got any rest. His skin was pale and unblemished; save for an adorable smattering of moles that he'd fantasized probably peppered the entirety of his lithe frame. It drove Derek to distraction, some days, letting his thoughts wander away as Stiles lounged on a chair pulled up to his desk, and he didn't know if he had it in him to think of it as a bad thing or not.

It made trying to actually talk to the guy excruciating, and that was most jarring. He'd hated it even more when  _Danny_  seemed to coax a genuine, relaxed excitement out of Stiles; how he seemed to straddle the line between friendship and flirting seamlessly and how Stiles eyes crinkled fondly every time they were near each other.

He hated that  _this_  was how he found out that Stiles could, in fact, flirt. With someone else.

He'd cursed that  _he_  had been the one to put them on the project together, thinking Stiles would benefit from having someone recognisable from the magazine on his first trip out. He'd berated his own stupidity that it was his idea in the first place; give Stiles a project, show that he trusted him, appreciated him, and they'd have something to talk about other than Derek's meeting schedule or where his dry-cleaning had been left or which department still owed their final mock-ups.

He'd resented the tight furl of jealousy below his heart when Stiles' eyes lit up at the mention of Danny's name; that he couldn't even be mature about it and act like he didn't mind, instead being snappish and dictatorial to the point where it was even pissing Stiles off because dammit  _it was supposed to be him_.

It was the opposite of what he wanted.

The worst part came when his stupid drunk mind thought it was okay to pull Stiles away from a freaking  _date_  to come collect him.

Derek had sat in the bar, alone and dejected and wishing he could have just been someone Stiles could see  _that way_. Was this going to be his life? Watching Stiles fall for other people while he brooded on the outskirts, jealous and seething but too fucking chicken to actually make an obvious move?

Was his life, after Jackson had exhausted Derek's usefulness, destined to be empty and wanting?

The realisation was as unsettling as it was liberating. When had he accepted that what he felt for Stiles wasn't just some passing fixation, or a desire for something he couldn't have?

It was like the universe was sending him a hint when the punch came. He didn't even know what he'd said to deserve it, but he did recall the guy attached to the fist having dark, brown eyes, dimples and olive skin, and a wash of hatred coming over Derek like he hadn't felt in years.

When the bouncer who'd dragged him away asked him for the name of someone who could take care of him, Derek hadn't thought twice about his reply.

He didn't even want to think of what had happened once Stiles had shown up; the jolt of heat when their skin made contact; the petulant way he'd acted in order to get what he wanted; Stiles face as he stripped Derek's character bare, seeing right inside him and taking it all in stride.

Derek was fascinated - Stiles was more than he'd even imagined, and he was the most delicious fucking mystery because he could never be completely figured out.

The simultaneous disappointment and relief, when Derek hobbled out into his living room that following morning and found the couch empty, blanket folded neatly over the back, was one of the most confusing moments of his life.

He remembered thinking maybe he hadn't completely fucked it up that time, but would he even get another chance?

Derek stubs out the first cigarette, lighting a second, and leaning against the railing. The memories nag at him more when he's alone, planning out everything that could have gone differently from the moment they'd met. He doesn't even know why he does this to himself, rehashing something that's finished, because he'd forced Stiles out of his life for good.

He definitely wouldn't want him now. Danny had taken a single look at him, two mornings ago, on his way back inside from a smoke break and said, "His mom died of cancer. He hates smoking," and walked off. Derek wanted to put his fist through the glass door.

He knows what they're all thinking. Lydia's silent judgement as he passes her each morning, taking in his dishevelled appearance and raising a knowing eyebrow.

Isaac's thinly-veiled concern and the absence of his usual passive-aggressive jibes make him feel all the more pathetic. He isn't even worthy of good-natured ribbing.

Almost worst was compulsive flirt, Danny, using a clipped and over-professional tone during any dealings they have with each other, like Derek has taken all the fun out of coming to work and doesn't even have the decency to apologise.

Derek has lots of practised apologies sitting on his tongue, but none of them are for anyone who still works for Alpha.

The worst thing of all, though, is that his thoughts of Stiles these days are coloured in regret, and each day the feeling piles higher and higher. Regrets that he’d had his chance all along and missed it, regrets that he'd been such a dick to Danny for thinking he'd taken something potentially precious from him, hated him, but now, now he hated himself even more.

He’s hated himself, and internally cursed everything, each day, for the past three weeks.

Three weeks without an over-zealous, yet croaky,  _‘Goooood morning_ ’, despite Stiles’ fingertips being shoved under his glasses, kneading his eyes so hard it was obvious he could barely see if it was even a ‘good morning’ at all.

Twenty-three days where he’s been conveniently out of office/indisposed/asleep/busy each time his sister has come to talk to him. He’d spent Christmas in a bar and just about managed to shake off the hangover by New Years.

Rinse, repeat.

Almost a month where he can’t go an entire hour without seeing something to remind him of the gaping absence left in his life through no fault but his own.

Like the bathroom by the Fashion department, which Stiles always skulked off to because he claimed it made him feel ‘fancy’ (though, it would be reasonable to assume that it was also because he didn’t like the mirrors in the one by Derek’s office).

“ _Who the hell wants to see their own face when they take a whizz? Nobody’s that good-looking! Well, except.... haaa... “He’d_  cleared his throat, blinking. “ _There are_  boundaries _, Derek. Even I don’t want to see my own pee-face._ ”

Derek wonders how healthy it is to avoid  _both_  bathrooms.

The  _I Believe in Harvey Dent_  sticker still stuck to the back of the monitor on his assistants’ desk.

The half-broken chair sitting  _behind_  said desk, which leans back a little too far due to over-lounging and the victory spins Stiles thought nobody else was witness to. The first involuntary smile Derek had conceded since the beginning of The Absence was at the look of momentary terror on June(?)’s face, that first morning when she leaned back and watched her Prada shoes fly out in front of her.

_Stiles would have lost his shit._

Derek presses the cigarette to his smirking lips and inhales.

He never slows down walking past Danny’s desk anymore, where he can still picture Stiles doing something that resembled the Macarena, the Moonwalk and the Cha Cha Slide each time they were scheduled to have a night out drinking, or planned something different for lunch. He still remembers the burning in his gut each time he heard Stiles talk about how full and exciting his life was outside the office. His life away from Derek.

Of course, because Derek's existence is a sad exercise in self-torture, being alone in his office has started to cause an ache to form in the hollow of his chest. Being somewhere Stiles had occupied so fully: the stage for every tutorial he'd given; most of the quiet conversations they'd had, sitting side-by-side and sneaking furtive glances and sharing grease-laden food; the place where they first laid eyes on each other... And where he'd finally worked up the guts to track Stiles down, that night when all he'd been able to focus on was uncovering the skin beneath that fucking  _suit_ , only to catch Jackson taking the best damn thing in his life away from him, is a sickness he probably deserves after being such a fucking idiot.

It's only made worse when he finally steels himself to go back there, the shudder of too much nicotine humming through his veins, and finds Laura sitting behind his desk.

Julia(?) is a really terrible fucking assistant.

"You know it's funny, I expected things to take a complete nosedive once Stiles left, but you seem to be almost holding it together," she says casually, the tightly-reigned threat of anger only showing to someone who knows her as well as Derek does. "Although, I'm yet to receive a satisfying explanation as to why you fucking  _fired_  him."

Derek deflates, all thoughts of resistance leaving with the betrayed look in Laura's eye. He's avoided her for too long, and if anything, it's just added to the pity-party he's been throwing for himself.

"Hey Laura," he croaks, closing the door behind him. She's reclining back on his chair, eyes on his computer screen and picking at the edge of a post-it stack -  _a fucking Batman post-it stack, because of course it is -_ distractedly. He leans against the wall by the door and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Oh, he speaks," she taunts. "I had serious doubts after spending five hours on Christmas Day alternating between calling you and wondering if I should call the police, only to get a single text message that was clearly over-reliant on autocorrect."

He buries a hand in his hair. "I'm sorry. I know it was... first without Dad and all... but..." He sighs. "You wouldn't have wanted me around."

A crease appears between her perfectly arched brows. "I'll always want you around. I just don't get why you started this whole spiral of self-flagellation instead of coming to me." Her eyes finally meet his. "We're all each other has, Derek. When did you start shutting me out?"

_When I knew that you'd tell me exactly what I've been telling myself, and I don't have the strength to listen to it out loud._

"I didn't mean to, alright?" he says, voice cracking. "I just-- I fucked up, and I'm just trying to deal with it."

Her jaw sets and she shakes her head. "I knew it. I knew this was about Stiles. What  _happened?"_

He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes. "It got... complicated, with us."  _I got scared._

"Isaac heard something about Jackson... but... That's bullshit, right? Stiles would never--"

"He did." Derek replies, closing his eyes as he says it, because technically it's true, and he can't tell her the fallout from it - the real reason Stiles turned his world on its head.

Morell had stipulated that he tell no-one, just to be safe.

"Oh, Derek," Laura sighs, turning away from his monitor to fix him with a look so full of sympathy, it makes him want to break down. "I'm so sorry. You liked him, didn't you?"

He nods, swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

It's almost a relief to admit to someone else. Someone who couldn't use the knowledge to either crush him completely or make him the happiest man alive.

"That's no reason to  _fire_  him, though. Stiles could sue us--"

_He should. He won't, but he should._

"--Just because he hooked up with your ex--"

"He didn't--" Derek interrupts, because it's important that Stiles’ reputation isn't tainted, even if it's just to Laura. "Jackson instigated it... Stiles wasn't having it, and he even came to explain--"  _and told me he wanted_   _me_  "--straight away. Jackson was just trying to fuck with me. Again."

Laura's eyes turn hard. "Are you kidding me? Hasn't that asshole done enough?"

"Apparently not."

"There should be some harassment clause," she says, wheels in her brain turning. "I wonder if it's grounds for a restraining order. I can have Legal--"

Derek shakes his head, hand waving out dismissively. "No. Just leave it. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's still getting to me."  _I need him exactly where he is, if what Stiles suspects is true._

"Okay," she says, clearly unconvinced, "If that's what you want, then okay." Her eyes narrow. "I still don't know why you had to fire Stiles over all of this."

He lets out a breath. Of course she wouldn't buy the lie. "Because it got too hard."

She purses her lips thoughtfully. She looks so much like their mom when she does that that a completely different ache opens up in Derek's chest.  _Mom would tell me how to fix this._

_Mom would tear Peter a new one._

_Mom would have loved Stiles._

Laura's eyes rove over him. It's so familiar it's unsettling.

"Because you liked him? That never seemed to matter with..." Her brows furrow for a moment before a look of realisation comes over her face. Crap. "Oh. Oh fuck. You  _really_  liked him. Derek, oh my god, you were in  _love_  with this guy... and.... and you  _fired_  him? What the hell were you thinking?"

Her hands are gesturing around wildly and her voice is getting shrill and Derek's finding the carpet extremely interesting.

"I was thinking that the last person I fell for made a complete idiot out of me," he snaps, glaring at his feet. "I was thinking that I should be taking the first excuse I could to get him out of my life before it got even worse. But it didn't work, because it was too late, and-- and now he's gone, and I'm fucked."

Silence stretches out between them. Derek's afraid to look up.

"Yeah. You are. And so is he." He pans his gaze up to see her eyes back on his monitor. "Did you know that Stiles keeps a blog?"

Derek's head snaps upright so hard he hits it off the wall. "He what?"

She nods. "It was on his résumé when I hired him, so you can't have read through it too well," she half-smirks. "He's kept it since he was in high school; it's mostly about music, or nerdy stuff  _you'll_  probably squeal like a thirteen year old girl over, but sometimes there's personal stuff on there too. I think it's just a place for his thoughts."

Derek doesn't remember pushing off the wall, but next thing he knows he's standing by Laura's shoulder, staring at a chaotic gathering of images, videos, and text that Derek thinks is probably a good visual representation of the inside of Stiles' brain.

He's shaking.

The address is the endearingly-nerd-tastic  _fasterthanaspeedingbassline,_ and in glaring script across the top, it reads,  _It's a bird! It's a plane! No wait! It's a blog!_

Derek melts.

He sinks on to his hands, bracing them on the desk, just to get closer to something of Stiles'; something made by him and representing him, when the real thing seems so far away.

"I'm surprised you didn't know about this," she says, moving to let Derek take his seat back. "I suspected this one might be about you, but I wasn't sure." She scrolls down to where someone has commented on an audio post by an artist Derek has never heard of.

_Posting a lot of emo-angsty stuff, dude. Bad break-up?_

His eyes zero in on Stiles' reply.

_Something like that. Let's just say I laid it all on the line to someone pretty fucking special, and they reacted exactly how I expected them to, because I'm a dumbass who doesn't deserve nice things._

Derek wants to correct him. He wants to tell him no, that Derek's the dumbass and  _he_ doesn'tdeserve _Stiles._ He wants to tell anyone reading that Stiles is perfect and impossible and his self-deprecating words are the most inaccurate thing ever put in print.

Derek swallows. His throat tastes like sandpaper. "You seem to just assume that he wanted me back," he says, taking over the mouse and trawling the page, searching for another personal entry.

Laura scoffs. She's standing in front of the desk now. "Please, Derek. You can't be that oblivious. The guy was gone on you. Lydia and Danny had a pool going on when you two would finally get together. She had the Christmas party. Pretty sure there was some kind of eighties-movie makeover planned."

Well, that explained a lot.

"I didn't even know if  _you_  knew you were into him. You've been... guarded, ever since...you know..."

Derek knows. Too well.

"Anyway, I just," she says, turning for the door. "I'm worried, baby bro. If losing him is making you this unhappy, then you have to fix it. Fast."

Derek tears his eyes away from the screen. "How?"

"That's up to you. But I think a good start is letting yourself trust him."

She doesn't know that he already has.

...

Stiles' blog is a relief and a torture all at once. Derek knew he was intelligent - Stiles' mind was probably the fundamental reason he was so enraptured by him - but his insight on topics ranging from current events, to production methods used in DIY recording, to  _breakfast cereal_  were as entertaining as anything he'd read.

The navigation menu to the side categorise his posts into an array of genres:  _Earworm of the Week_ (where he posts new music, several of the songs are ones Derek recognises from Stiles humming under his breath as he typed, or blasting through his obnoxiously large headphones);  _The Daily Bugle_ (his current events and news round-up);  _Love in my Tummy_ (food porn);  _Your Dad's Record Collection_ (throwback music ranging from the 60's to 90's);  _8-bitz_ (video game reviews and speculation);  _Dreamcasting_ (which is exactly as described, Stiles discussing, casting or re-casting movie adaptations - sometimes photoshop is involved);  _These Streets Are Ours_ (documenting the best buskers and street musicians New York had to offer); * _Grabby Hands*_ (which just seems to be a collection of attractive guys Stiles likes to look at);  _Don't Steal This Album!_ (his bi-monthly LP review);  _Torchlight Reading_ (comic book discussion);  _Is It Just Me?_ (random thoughts and musings) and the oddly-named  _Dan Humphrey Eat Your Heart Out_ , which houses his personal posts.

Derek manages to pace himself by skimming through some of the other categories first while he feigns doing actual work on the February issue (which is love-themed because  _of course it would be)._

Stiles' talent is that he has the ability to simplify convoluted subjects into something accessible to the lay-reader, without patronising or compromising on tone. His passion is, as in person, infectious, and it was only when Janelle(?) comes in to inform Derek that it was time for her to leave, that he realised Laura had cleared his schedule for the day and requested that he not be disturbed.

He couldn't be sure, but his web history gave up after eighty pages of Stiles' blog.

He gives up all pretence of avoiding the personal section after clicking into  _*Grabby Hands*_ ; the most recent photo of an oddly familiar actor with dark hair, stubble, and hazel-green eyes. Derek's brows shoot up. It's kind of uncanny, if even Derek could see it. Stiles has captioned the shot, " _So I can't watch anything with this guy in it ever again. The resemblance is fucking ridiculous and I don’t care if I'm trading in my Dude Card when I say it hurts to look at him. Heartbreak blows."_

Derek wishes he had this actor-guy's easy smile.

He tentatively navigates to the  _Dan Humphrey_  tab. The past month is a stark contrast to the preceding posts. Gone are the witty, over-enthusiastic accounts or sarcastic anecdotes, replaced with comment-free, impersonal web comics or YouTube links to acoustic songs - and even those are sparse. It's the most silent Stiles could be without actually being silent, and Derek  _aches._

The drop in text entries is most glaring. The last one, before the initial post Laura had shown him, is dated two weeks ago.

_Having bro-time with Scott. Sorry for being MIA lately, loyal citizens. Been a rough couple of weeks._

_Found out things I wish I hadn't, which affect people I care about._

_Got kiss-assaulted by a douchebag with distorted views of his own appeal._

_Lost my job._

_It sucks, but I guess everything happens for a reason, right? It's kind of hard to see the reason right now, because I feel like someone hit me with a truck, stripped me naked, and told me they shut down IHOP_ and _DC comics just to fuck with me, but that's the way the cookie crumbles._

_(I may or may not be eating cookies right now. In my underwear. Scott says it's okay to act like a fourteen year old with a broken heart sometimes, so I'm choosing to partake of his wisdom, as it doesn't happen often.)_

_I kind of made an ass of myself over someone and it'd help if I could stop replaying it over and over in my head, but apparently my attention span is flawless when it wants to screw me over._

_Erica's been threatening bodily harm, and not on my body, so that's nice. I just don’t have the energy to join in on the fury. I think it's partially because I didn't get closure. It's a bad time when you don't even get the chance to explain yourself before the cord is severed._

_Fuck it. I shouldn't care this much anyway. Pretty sure **he**  didn't (like he claimed he did), or didn't want to. Whatever._

_(I may or may not also have polished off a six-pack. Drunken bitterness is usually short-lived with me. Enjoy the show while it lasts.)_

_Whoa, this got long and boring, and Scott's making the impatient puppy face at me. Time for Simon Pegg to show us how they handle zombies across the Pond._

_Laters_

_\- The Blogger This City Deserves_

It's like a red-hot knife in the ribs.

The entry is followed by the first photo Derek has seen that includes Stiles on the entire blog, time-stamped the morning after the text post. It's of two mops of hair, one familiarly dishevelled, and a tantalisingly soft-looking chocolate brown; the other only slightly longer, darker and coiffed-back, peeking out of a well-loved comforter which fully encompasses the bodies the hair belong to.

The caption reads:  _Courtesy of Allison's Instagram. Scott and I now come in sleepy burrito form, for your viewing pleasure. #bromanceoftheages_

Derek has never wanted to become someone he's yet to meet in person so much in his life. Scott McCall is exactly where he wants to be.

He's still reading through the blog, an hour later, when his phone lights up with a new call. Blocked ID, like it always is.

He answers it and holds it to his ear.

_"Mr Hale?_

Derek grunts. "I thought we agreed, no calls while I'm in the office."

_"It's almost eight thirty. I assumed you'd be home by now."_

Derek sighs. "What is it?"

He's half-expecting a demand for more money. Her claim that her chosen career is partially because she  _enjoys_  skulking around in the shadows 'finding out what makes others tick' sounds flimsy.

" _We need to meet. I have something,"_ she says, soft yet urgent. She always sounds like she's huddled in the back seat of a stranger's car. Like she knows more than she'll ever tell. It's annoying. " _I think it's time to bring in the police._ "

Derek's hammering the elevator button before he even gets his jacket on.

...

Isaac is in the middle of, what appears to be, an extremely important call when Derek approaches. He holds up a pen in the air, the universal  _hold-on-a-second,_ and nods.

"Yes, I understand that, but Ms Hale is prepared tocontribute a very generous incentive towards whichever driver would take the time out of their day to help with moving."

Derek frowns and mouths ' _who's moving_?’ but Isaac ignores him.

"Yes, if you need to dispatch extra help, that's fine too. The apartment is on the sixth floor, so expecting the recipient to take care of all of it himself is slightly unreasonable."

Derek waits, while Isaac makes notes in the margins of a memo pad as he listens. It's strange, but it feels as if there's a kinship between the two of them now. He's not fully sure what the dynamic of Laura and Isaac's relationship is. Honestly, it just seems like loyal friendship, and he doesn't really need to know much more than that.

He left Laura in Isaac's care for the first time in two days, after the arrest. She'd gone from broken tears, to angry, half-cocked plots of revenge, right back to rage-crying in the span of forty-five hours, and Derek was exhausted.

Having Peter followed uncovered more than he'd bargained for. There was a bittersweet cloying in his chest that told him he should be happy, that his Dad would be getting justice, that Laura was safe - but that betrayed, teenage boy inside him, who'd slept on Peter's couch for a full week after his mother's accident because he couldn’t handle being at home, who watched one of the adults he'd trusted evolve into someone with flaws and nefarious motives; the beloved uncle who became a dark husk of himself due to mountains of debt and a lifetime of living in his brother's shadow, didn't feel victorious at all.

Maybe it’s the realisation that he is standing outside the office of the only family he has left in the entire world.

Maybe it was the assumption that everything would feel better, once Peter had been brought to justice, but it has been days and he’s yet to process anything at all.

Peter had been arrested. Jackson too, so why does Derek still feel so empty?

Laura exits her office just as Isaac is getting off the phone, and she's holding swatches of fabric while Sandra from Fashion trails out after her.

"Yes, definitely considering this dark, cobalt colour. His skin is pale, so it'll just make it  _pop,_ with the brown eyes _._ I want some shirts too, so make sure Hugo Boss give us all they-- Derek!" she says, thrusting the swatches at Sandra and making  _away with you, peasant_  motions with one hand.

"What's going on?" he asks suspiciously. He'd only wandered over here to take her to lunch, but she seems to be in the middle of a big production that involves XBox games and Hugo Boss.

She looks defiant. "Just because you asked me not to bother him, doesn't mean I get to sit back and do nothing when he  _saved my life,_ Derek."

Derek deflates. Of  _course_  it's about that. As soon as the ordeal relented, he'd finally allowed his mind to wander back to him.

(His blog has barely been updated in two weeks. It's infuriating.)

"So what, you're sending him a bunch of gifts instead?"

She holds out her hands. "You've given me no other choice. Unless you're willing to let me tie a little bow around your wrist and leave you outside an apartment building in the middle of Brooklyn...”

Derek gives her a pathetically pained look. Laura lets out a breath, leaning her head to the side fondly.

"Oh jeez, it was a joke, just-- let me do this, okay? I promise, no meddling."

"He probably won't accept them," Derek says, grudgingly. "He's not someone who's easily bought."

_Jackson knew from experience._

"We'll if he doesn't, then the nearest Goodwill is going to have a nice donation, and then everybody's happy."

He presses his lips together and breathes out. "Fine," he says, backing away from Isaac's desk. He points to the memo pad and says, "But leave out the Alienware. He's a Mac guy."

He just about catches the sympathetic look on Laura's face before he turns to leave.

...

"Deaton."

"Yes, Good afternoon. This is Derek Hale, over at Alpha? I understand you have an opening for a staff writer coming up."

"My, word travels fast in this industry. Yes, you've heard correctly. Planning on submitting yourself as a candidate?"

A huff of laughter, "No, I don't think I'm Billboard material."

"Says the gentleman who managed to keep Alpha from drowning in the wake of a huge internal shock to the company..."

"Ah, well, that's partially why I was hoping to talk to you. I want to put forward my former assistant, Stiles, for your consideration."

"An assistant? May I ask why?"

"He's much more than that - he's got a pretty impressive portfolio for someone his age. Runs a semi-successful blog, was editor of _The Washington Square Times_  at NYU, where he graduated top of his Journalism class. Two of his pieces were picked up by The Times when he was still a student - but his main passion is music. He has a fresh eye, an uncynical ear and doesn't pull punches with his critiques. He's concise and direct, yet still manages to be passionate, and I think he'd be a great addition to any team, especially one in a field where he could excel." Derek lets out a breath.

"That's quite an endorsement speech you've given there, Mr. Hale - but I have to ask, if this kid is so special, why isn't he working at Alpha?"

A long sigh.

"It was a waste of his potential, and we already have a perfectly good set-up for arts and culture. If I may be candid, if Alpha's survival can be attributed to any one event, it's Stiles' addition to our staff. I was thrown into the deep end after the reshuffle with barely a life preserver, and I was floundering - badly - until the day he was hired. He saved my ass and he saved our magazine by making sure we had an editor who actually knew what the hell was happening, and who could field concerns from the rest of the team. It really would be a shame to see him toil in the dregs writing filler pieces and working as my assistant for any longer."

"So he plays well with others?"

"He's innately likeable, sir. He has charmed every person in our office and his absence is felt every single day."

"You really do make a hard sell, Hale. You inherited your father's talent for marketing."

"Only for things I'm passionate about."

"Hmm. Well, it's not common practise for me to hire someone who hasn't gone through the regular channels. Have his resume forwarded to HR over here and I'll take a look."

"Thank you, Mr. Deaton. I hope you'll be convinced. Reyes Recruitment have his account, should you need to contact him. Ask for Erica."

"Duly noted, thanks for your call, Mr. Hale."

"Any time."

...

Matt posts photos from the Christmas party on the bulletin board that doubles as a passive-aggressive insults forum between departments. There’s been a war raging between the Layout team and Fashion told only in cut-outs from publications like  _Crochet Weekly_ (where Sandra had interned) and kid's arts and crafts issues. Derek doesn't really get it.

There's a photo of Stiles and Lydia grinding their rear-ends together, his face flushed with alcohol and happiness, and Danny laughing so hard in the background there are tears in his eyes.

"Some night, it was," Danny says, startling him with a fond smile on his face. His eyes rove over the board thoughtfully. "He un-tagged himself from all the pictures on Facebook. Like he never worked here."

Derek doesn't have Facebook. It's probably for the best.

"Pretty impressive that he landed that gig at Billboard," he continues, eyeing Derek knowingly. "I have an old college buddy who was dying for that job, and he was pretty put-out that they went with some jumped-up college grad with little-to-no writing experience."

Derek casts his eyes downwards, a proud smile tugging at his lips. Stiles had updated his blog only once with a personal entry - an embedded video of Chris Brown's  _Look At Me Now_  and captioned with. " _New job, bitches!"._

Danny looks almost approving. "It's kind of like someone put in a good word for him."

Derek's brows rise. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We'll, I'm sure he could have gotten it on his own."

Danny nods. "Probably could, yeah. I guess I'll find out at the Media Summit next week. Deaton always sends his guys along to it."

Derek's breath catches. Maybe Janice(?) has finally done him a favour by RSVPing to it on his behalf.

...

Derek can't breathe. Stiles is a few feet away from him, looking bored and lazy and Derek can't  _breathe._

He looks great. Better than great. His hair's gone slightly past unruly and entered pornographically tuggable. A permanent pink stains his cheeks from the brisk New York Spring they've been having and of course - of  _course -_ he's destroying the cap of a ball-point pen between his lips. There's an easy contentment in the way he laughs along with the guy next to him - who Derek resents solely because he doesn't know him and this person represents a phase in Stiles' life he has no involvement in - and there's a warring in Derek's chest between moving closer and running away.

The latter wins out, and he dials Laura in the hallway.

"He's here," he says without preamble.

_"So, what, you're hiding in the bathroom talking to me instead of going up there and grovelling?"_

Derek glares at little stick-man on the door in front of him. "I'm not  _in_  the bathroom."  _Just outside it._

She snorts. " _Right. What are you waiting for?"_

"He's..." He sighs. "He looks happy. Really happy. Maybe I should--"

_"Maybe you should man-up and talk to him? Maybe you should stop beating yourself up about this for once and go after what you want?"_

"He has no reason to even give me the time of day.  _I_  wouldn't."

" _Have you known him to hold a grudge?"_  she asks, before interrupting his reply. " _Don't answer that."_

The day Harris' computer played nothing but gay porn on a loop for two hours before IT fixed it was the stuff of legend around the office. The culprit had never been caught, but Stiles had burst into barking laughter at regular intervals for three days.

" _Even after everything that's happened, he's never indicated that he blames you for it. I think he's too blinded by the heart-eyes to hold it against you."_

"You don't know that. It's been months. Maybe he's moved on. Maybe he's--" He grits his teeth.  _Maybe he's over me._

She lets out a breath. " _That's a possibility. He's smart, successful and cute as all hell. Only an idiot would let him go."_

 _"_ Gee, really great pep-talk here, Laur. A-plus."

" _If you wanted a pep-talk, you wouldn't have called me."_

It's true. He doesn't need someone doing him favours right now. Derek's a realist - preparing himself for the worst is the only reason he's kept a tenuous grip on his sanity for so long.

" _If you don't at least talk to him, you're going to kick yourself, and who knows when you'll see him again. It's a small industry, Derek, but not that small."_

He nods before remembering she can't see him. "You're right. I'll... I'll figure something out."

..

Derek watches him walk off before Danny cuts into the possibly inappropriate daze he's entered into. Stiles butt needs to be on billboards. Huge ones.

He had talked to him. He had  _smiled_  and Derek felt like he needed to run in place or something to expel the excess energy his hammering heart was providing.

"We'll, that was decidedly less awkward than I'd envisioned."

All he can do is stare at where Stiles is back talking to the colleague he'd seen him sitting with earlier. It's either amazing or pathetic how the room is so full of people but Derek can't tear his eyes away from one.

"Is he-- do you know if...”

"There's anyone else in the picture?" Danny finishes, eyeing him from the corner of his vision. Derek still can't look away from where Stiles is laughing, easy and free with his head tilted back, exposing a column of flesh he wants to nuzzle his face into and never leave.

"Yeah."

Danny smirks. "Nobody worth mentioning."

...

"Shit shit  _shit_. I wish horrible death upon you and your egg-based relatives."

"Hey, that's no way to talk to my breakfast."

Derek startles, spinning in place with a spatula held aloft to take in Stiles - hair wild, neck marked, and dressed only in Derek's own sleep pants. He can't help the grin as his stomach flutters.

"You're supposed to still be in bed," he says, trying for reprimand but ending up just sounding fond and smitten, because he's  _so fucked_.

Last night was the single most amazing in Derek's life, and now, finally, Stiles is here, in the kitchen he's barely used since moving in, looking thoroughly debauched. Derek's blood is humming.

"And miss the show?" Stiles says, eyes trailing down Derek's form and back up with a glint. "I gotta say, I'm getting really conflicted feelings right now, about starting a campaign so you never wear anything other than those boxer-briefs, like  _ever,_ and hoarding this image all for myself."

Derek looks down, ears heating up. "We can make it a house rule, if you want," he smiles.

"Oh, I want," he says lecherously, and Derek turns back to his muddled mess of a pancake with a shy grin. "Did you-- is that  _freshly squeezed OJ_?"

He's standing beside him now, hands resting on the counter beside the sticky mess Derek's made on it. He's got an expression on his face that's somewhere between fond and awed, and just for that, Lydia is for sure in the running for new assistant, purely for being the lifesaver who had a box of breakfast ingredients delivered to Doug downstairs. That phone call had more smug undertones than even Laura would be capable of.

"It's nicer than the carton stuff," he mumbles, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Maybe he's trying too hard.

Stiles lets out a soft laugh. "Holy shit, you're ridiculous," he says, seemingly more to himself, and he turns to face Derek.

All he can think about, taking the sight of him in, is the fact that there's nothing underneath those pants, and what Stiles face would look like if he tugged them off, propped him up on the counter, and put his mouth on him, waking him to hardness with teasing licks and careful strokes of his hand.

Stiles' skin is an addiction, pinking up beautifully when Derek rubs his stubbled chin across it, moles and freckles in both exposed and secret places, like a scavenger hunt that always pays off. He doesn't think he's found them all, yet, but he wants to dedicate the rest of the day to trying.

"I was thinking you might need a healthy start for whatever you have to do today," he fishes, trying to casually give Stiles an out if he wants to leave. Derek would be okay with it, really.

Okay, no, he kind of wouldn't, but this is so new, and he's at a complete fucking loss as to how to put his feelings into words that aren't  _please move in here and never leave._

"Oh," Stiles says, halting in his slow advance closer to Derek. His face goes neutral, and is eyes flick over Derek's face behind his glasses. "I was hoping... No, I mean, I have some deadlines looming, I guess, if you're busy..."

"I'm not busy," Derek says quickly. Probably  _too_  quickly, if the way Stiles face startles before it melts into a lop-sided smile is any indication. "I just didn't want to assume... anything."

He shakes his head in reply. "I'm having a serious blank in coming up with, well,  _anything_  I'd rather be doing today. Complete cognitive blank." He steps closer again, mischievous eyes flitting to Derek's mouth, and his chest  _swells_.

He turns back to the pan, aiming for nonchalant.

"I'm glad to hear it," he says, feeling Stiles' breath tickling his cheek before a soft, barely-there touch of lips that causes goosebumps to erupt over his skin.

"It makes up for the fact that my sad attempt at breakfast won't make it into  _Yummy in my Tummy..._ "

Stiles stills, and Derek feels a smug grin tugging at his lips.

"You... You asshole! You read my blog?!" he all but squawks, batting at Derek's shoulder with wide eyes. "Oh my  _god_. This is so embarrassing," he mutters, burying a hand in his hair. "The pining.. The fucking  _music_  videos--"

"I was kind of missing you like crazy," Derek cuts in before there's an aneurism or something. He sets down the spatula and turns, playing with the drawstring of Stiles' sleep pants shyly before looking up. "If anything's embarrassing, it's how many times a day I checked it, just hoping you'd post a photo of yourself or something."

Stiles eyes are on Derek's chest now. "Really?" he breathes.

Derek nods, hands trailing back to rest on pale, slim hips. He crowds him backwards against the counter and ghosts his lips over Stiles', breathing in his sleep-warm scent and listens to the catch of breath.

"I think I drove myself half-crazy wondering if you were okay, if you were with somebody else... If I'd ever see you again."

Stiles presses their lips together on a soft groan, hands weaving into Derek's hair as he leaves playful nips before sliding his tongue inside. It's heady and makes his knees week, but Derek has a daydream he wants to realise, and he doesn't waste another moment before sliding his hands down beneath the waistband, kneading delectable flesh with his fingers and lifting Stiles onto the countertop.

A breathy bark of laughter flits out against his lips. "Dude, I think you just got orange juice all over my ass," he says.

Derek smirks. "Wonder what that'll taste like to lick off," he muses, and Stiles practically  _whimpers_.

He slides to his knees, eyes fused to whiskey-hued ones which are hooded and dark before releasing Stiles' cock from his pyjama pants. The fantasy about feeling him plump up against his lips will have to wait.  _Next time,_ he thinks.

" _Jesus Tapdancing Christ,"_ Stiles swears, as Derek darts his tongue around the head, soft and teasing.

He lets out a quiet laugh. He'd hoped that Stiles would be vocal, all those times he'd indulged himself with wanting. After their first time, it was like the floodgates opened; Stiles thanking deities of every denomination, inventing new swear words that were closer to gibberish than anything actually obscene, and his mouth never shut from the moment Derek's hands were on him either from spewing pseudo obscenities or tugging a knuckle or a pillow between his teeth to muffle himself.

It's the sexiest thing Derek has ever witnessed.

He suckles for a beat before sliding his lips downwards, taking as much as he can. The muscles in Stiles' thighs twitch beneath the cotton, and his head slides back, hitting off the cabinet behind him.

"Holy shit. You are just-- Awards.  _All_  the awards to your mouth," he pants. "Can you--" Derek adds his hand into the mix, moving his wrist to the rhythm he's set for himself. They're still learning each other, but Derek has always been a quick study and Stiles offers enthusiastic encouragement with a tug to his hair when he's stumbled on something right.

He's so hard he's already given-in to palming at his own underwear. That voice, hoarse and broken, echoing in his ears does it  _every time._

 "Oh my  _fuck.."_

Derek hums happily, eyes closing to lose himself in the moment. Before long, Stiles hips are making tiny, aborted thrusts, and his toes are twitching ticklishly at the skin just below Derek's ribs. It's fucking perfect.

" _Yeah.... Yeah.."_  He rambles. "Shit, Derek, I'm-- I'm close."

Derek has barely grunted his assent before Stiles abs are clenching and he's doubling over, muffling a curse of hot breath into Derek's hair.

He's still shuddering bonelessly by the time Derek has licked him clean.

"I think we burned the pancakes," Derek frowns a long moment later, struggling to his feet. Blood flow is not directing towards his legs right now.

"Fuck the pancakes," Stiles breathes, stumbling down into Derek's grasp. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks stained perfectly. "My ass is covered in OJ," his eyes flick downwards, and he smirks. "And you're still hard."

The pancakes end up being more of a lunch-time thing than breakfast.

...

"Dude, I don't care how much of a cheap-skate it makes me, half the fun of going to the movies is seeing how many packs of milk-duds I can fit down my pants."

Derek grunts distractedly. His palms are sweating so hard that they keep slipping off the armrests and his heart could probably be heard all the way down in the front row, if Stiles would ever stop talking.

"Are you even listening to me?" He's got a handful of popcorn held in front of his mouth in a pause.

Derek tears his eyes away from the screen. They're still mid-way through the trailers, and every time one ends, his stomach lurches again, because it's  _almost time._

"Sure. Milk Duds, pants," he says, eyes flicking back to the screen again.

Stiles frowns in the corner of his vision.

"Is this about the premiere?" he asks, munching. "Because I told you man, it's seriously fine that you forgot to score tickets. Put away the guilty face."

"Okay."

"And anyway, up until last year I was still downloading pirate copies. Going to see this in an actual theatre is kind of like a huge treat for me," he smiles kindly, and Derek's heart  _jumps_. "Plus, I get to wear my Spiderman pants to an actual Spiderman screening, which, hello, officially awesome."

Derek allows himself a smirk at the memory of him bursting out of their bedroom and miming web-slingers before they left the apartment. How did he fall for such a giant nerd?

"So stop angsting and enjoy the movie?" he says quietly, leaning over to bump his nose against Derek's cheek. He turns and presses a chaste kiss to Stiles lips and smiles.

"Sure, yeah," he says, through the thundering of his pulse.

Stiles settles back into his seat as the trailers end, screen going blank momentarily before  _Please hold for a very special message_ shows up in giant, foot-high letters. He can see the frown from the corner of his eye, and Stiles straightens up, muttering something about a director's cut under his breath just as Andrew Garfield appears on screen.

Derek's pulse is officially reaching dangerous territory, and he's breathing so hard he thinks he can see the hair of the woman in front of him moving. The theatre has dissolved into confused titters but he can't focus on anything but the jittering of his knee.

 _"Hey everyone,"_ Garfield starts, in his English accent, and Stiles holds his hands up in confusion. " _I'd like to thank you all for coming to support the movie, and actually paying for it so that I can do this for a living instead of mooching off my parents back in Surrey._ " He pauses to smirk, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

" _Anyway, you're probably wondering what the hell is going on, why I'm sitting in a trailer and talking to you instead of running around on top of buildings in spandex, but the film will start in a moment, don't worry._ "

"What the fuck?" Stiles says, sparing a glance at Derek before looking back.

" _I'm talking to you tonight - well, one of you in particular - on behalf of a friend. He's an extremely nice guy I've had the pleasure of working with a few times, and any time I meet him, he never shuts up about the love of his life, who, I have on good authority, is a massive Spidey fanboy._ " Garfield smiles. " _Sounds like a very smart person._ "

Stiles eyebrows have officially reached his hairline, and he's started looking around the immediate rows for a clue as to what's going on.

 _"Anyway, I don't want to ruin the surprise or anything, but I hope he gets the answer he's looking for tonight."_ He holds up a hand, palm up, toward the camera. " _Derek, man, I'll let you take it from here_."

Stiles' jaw gapes as Derek turns, slides to one-knee in the confined space between the seats and the house lights come up. His chest is tight as he fumbles with the tiny box that has practically burned a hole in his pocket all evening, and he looks up to Stiles' wide eyes.

"Stiles," he breathes, clearing his throat in the awed silence that has descended, trying to remember the speech he's agonised over for months. "I wish I had your talent with words, so I could tell how much you've changed my life for the better."

Stiles chest is heaving, and his mouth is making aborted attempts to interrupt, even  _now,_ because it's Stiles, and that's one of the thousand reasons Derek loves him.

"You saved me, and you saved my family... Somewhere along the way, you _became_  my family," he chokes, because it's the truest thing he's ever said in his life.

"I want to know if you would do me the amazing honour of making it official. Of becoming my husband, and staying with me until we're old and grey and complaining about how the superhero movies in our day were better than the new-fangled trash our kids are watching."

Stiles manages a grin, and it's only as his eyes flit over Derek's face that he can see that they're shining with the threat of tears. Derek can feel the sting in his own but  _dammit_  he has to get his answer.

He opens the box, and Stiles' gaze only moves to it a moment before meeting Derek's again, as if silently asking if he's for real.

"You're more than I ever could have hoped for, and better than I will ever deserve, so, my question is--" His voice cracks.  _Dammit. "_ Will you marry me?"

There's silence. It feels like the single longest moment of Derek's life. His throat is threatening to close as Stiles just stares at him, blinking owlishly for a beat. He shakes his head, takes a breath, and gulps.

"Oh my god. Oh my  _god..._ You're...fuck! Yes?" He shakes his head, holding up a hand and frowning like the answer is obvious.

He beams wildly, and Derek's breath releases.

"Yes! Holy shit," Stiles nods, finally managing to move into a slide, down to the floor to meet Derek. "Yes, I'll fucking marry you, holy crap!"

The place erupts in cheers and applause, and if Derek wasn't kissing Stiles like his life depended on it, he could pick out the frenzied whoops of their friends in the back row.

 When they finally manage to stand, they turn to find Scott crying openly, his back being stroked by an indulgent-looking Allison. Laura doesn’t look far off tears herself, half-hidden behind her hands, and Erica gives Derek a thumbs-up with a palm clutched to her chest. Lydia is practically elbowing the girls out of the way in a quest to document the moment on her phone. Danny, Boyd and Isaac look on proudly, and it finally hits Derek that this, right here, is the single happiest moment of his life.

He slides the ring on Stiles' finger, who stares at it before latching their lips together in a way  _far_ too inappropriate for the rating of the movie.

"Oh my god," he breathes on parting, pressing their foreheads together, "Dude, I love you so fucking much." He kisses him again, like he can't help it. Derek's head is swimming with the enormity of it all.

"And Andrew Garfield is  _so_  coming to our wedding."


End file.
